


Warmth

by Alyss_Baskerville



Category: Pandora Hearts
Genre: Angst, F/M, I want to know more, LET ME STOP, So much angst, but seriously i love xerxes and shelly, i am clearly a depressed person folks, like seriously it's amazing, their relationship is so interesting, this was right after he was ejected from the abyss, too much angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-08-25 13:40:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16662021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alyss_Baskerville/pseuds/Alyss_Baskerville
Summary: The demons of Kevin Regnard cannot be soothed but by one person.





	Warmth

It itches. It hurts. It burns.

Sensations that did not belong together became twice as unbearable when they did join. 

Kevin digs his fingers into his own empty eye-socket. He should be used to the hollowness of it by now, but, despite the fact that it is his own body, he feels absolutely repulsed and disgusted, sensing nothingness where it was only natural for there to be  _something._

_My eye. My left eye. Kill her. She took it. Kill her. **Kill her!**_

He longs to see that young, pure-white girl again, merely so he can wrap his hands around that frail little neck and squeeze, and crush, until her bones crumble beneath his fingers. He will crave the desperation, the will to live, blazing in those soulful purple jewels of eyes that she possesses, as he cuts off her air supply with his own two hands, and he will absolutely  _thrive_ in the emptiness of her very being when the life leaves her body.

His fingers dip again into the hollow, fleshy cavern that used to house his wide-red eyeball, morbidly entranced by the soft, wet, spongy matter that rested inside the grotto. Before he can familiarize itself with it, however, a trickle of red runs down his finger, and he draws his hand away in a panicked blur of motion. Blood and clots of red tissue are tucked underneath and around his fingernail.

 _Disgusting..._ the description is brought to mind before he can stop it.  _Disgusting...revolting...nauseating...ugly..._

He feels cold, blue and cold and frozen. It frightens him. It  _terrifies_ him, because is he even a person anymore? He wonders. Is he capable of feeling anymore? He is desperate to know. 

He doesn't consciously realize the weight of his actions, as he starts to almost frantically claw away at the empty socket. It stings his face, his nerves, terribly, but the sharp, bitter agony somehow soothes him and unwinds the knot of resentment, hatred, and fear in his gut. At least he can still feel pain. At least there is one aspect of his that remains human.

Dried blood is stuck to his digits as he gouges languidly, scraping off bits and pieces of flesh around and inside the eye socket. His right eye wells with tears - it just hurts  _so much,_ but he clutches desperately at the sensation of pain, begging it to let him know that he was normal and not some mutant creature that had no business existing. 

And then, a gentle hand grabs his wrist, pulling it away so it is unable to continue its action. Immediately, the comfort in knowing that even a beast such as he is not exempt from suffering physically evaporates, and he lashes out at his interloper, thrusting whoever it is back a few steps. 

"Leave me alone," he hisses, body tensed and quivering, coiling up defensively, like a wounded animal would. "Go away. Don't touch me. Don't look at me!" He is furious, enraged, frustrated, hateful, because how dare this being... _how dare they waste their time on a thing like him?_ How dare they even bother to acknowledge him?

Everyone, everything, anyone, anything, they should all just leave him alone. They should disregard him, allow him to wither and fester and rot, like a carcass in water. His existence should not be remembered. It -  _he_ \- should be buried and hidden and cloaked and concealed, never to see the light of the sun, because he did not deserve to. 

The interloper ignores his snarls and advances. Kevin keeps his eyes downcast; he is not interested in knowing who it is. As the footsteps near, though, the hem of a lavender dress becomes visible. 

"You shouldn't do that," the female voice is gentle, and he feels a few strands of silken hair brush against his cheek. Out of the peripheral of his right eye, he can make out the light caramel tone of her soft locks. Vaguely, he recalls who it is. It is Lady Shelly, daughter of Lady Sheryl and mother of Young Mistress Sharon. 

He wants to bolt, he wants to flee the scene as fast as his legs can carry him, because he does not correspond with this young, beautiful, woman. She is so pure, so kind, so caring, while he is so defiled, so selfish, so vile. Their very selves clash against each other. An angel should not associate itself with a demon. 

Nevertheless, her goddess-like air entrances even vermin such as himself. He longs to be embraced by that light, to be washed clean of his ugliness, his despicable nature, and be forgiven. He wants it. He desires it. He almost  _needs_ it, but he will have to deny himself, for no creature of mud and dust and dirt could dream of laying a finger on this entity of light standing before him. Compared to her, he is lower than Heaven is higher than Hell. He is nothing but an insect to be squashed with one toe. 

Soft hands land on his cheeks, and his eye widens in astonishment. His bemused, stupefied gaze it met with gentle, cranberry-colored eyes that are full of laughter and mercy and mirth. She examines his wound, and he suppresses the urge to break away in shame.  

"My, my," her voice is melodic, smooth, gently scolding, and flows over him like a clear bubbling stream in the midst of the spring. "You've done some rather troublesome damage to yourself. Kevin," she looks him straight in the eye, "how many times have we tried to tell you that you cannot touch your eye while it is healing?" 

He cannot respond. How can his raspy, weary, strained, thin voice ever compare to her lilting, songbird-like tone? 

"Still refusing to talk, I see, although you had no qualms shouting just now," she comments teasingly, but he does not at all feel affronted or angry. Something within him is stirring and beating and simply  _living again..._ color seems to return to the world, sensation seems to seep back into his range of abilities, and suddenly, he doesn't feel cold anymore. He feels comforted, secure, and for a moment, his spitefulness, his loathing for everyone and everything, most prominently of all  _himself,_ lessens. It's just a bit, just an minuscule amount that is a mere droplet in comparison to his vast oceans of torment, but it is the most content he has ever felt since his master died, since he left Young Mistress Sinclair.

For the first time in ages, he feels the slightest of warmth.


End file.
